


The First Taste

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Human Gabriel, Poor Gabriel, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Smut, oral sex (female receiving)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: Gabriel finds that being human isn’t what he expected.  Sometimes it’s even better.





	The First Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a follower celebration on Tumblr (@thewhiterabbit42)  
> Requested by: Anon  
> Kink: Praise Kink  
> Character: Gabriel

Gabriel’s always expected his senses to be blunted if he lost his grace, but the things he can taste now that he’s human exceed all expectations.  Starbursts literally burst with a juicy rainbow of fruits rather than being overshadowed by the fillers and additives used for texture and coloring.  Chocolate is a much smaller, more decadent spectrum of deliciousness when he can't taste everything down to the very earth in which the seeds are grown.  Ice cream is a whole new ballgame (as are the after effects of having far, far too much of it). 

 

Then there are the things he’s never considered.  

 

How a good sear on a steak can make all the difference.  How the crunch of crisp lettuce combined with an assortment of fixings can create an entire world in a single bite.  How sugar and spice meld so magically he’s convinced that honey habanero is the only sauce that belongs on wings.  

 

His favorite, however, is a little something called a Banh Mi sandwich from a Thai place in Florida.  It has a little bit of everything - sweet, sour, spicy, salty - and the complexity of all the ingredients form a delectable blend that flourishes through his mouth in ways he’s never experienced.  

 

He finds you to be no different. 

 

He hasn't gone down on anyone since the change.  The way your flavor dances across his tongue, he has a feeling he won't be able to settle for anything less than you from here on out.  He teases along the side of your folds, captivated by the relationship between your scent and how it translates into taste.  It’s a succulent and intoxicating synthesis that immediately has him craving more.

 

Perhaps he’s wrong.  Perhaps you are just this first experience through this mortal lens.  He realizes now just how overwhelming sensory input is when one’s an angel.  There’s layer upon layer of atomic material, each particle buzzing with it’s own level of energy.  While humans spend most of their time teasing apart the intricacies, celestial beings must work at looking past individual parts to appreciate the wholeness that exists if one can manage to drown out the background noise.   

 

He’d still like to think you really are the sweetest treat he’s ever tasted and everything else is just an imitation designed to fool his tastebuds.  

 

He knows he’s not the first to do this with you, _any_ of this, but his pride can't help but swell beneath the symphony you sing in response to his touch.  He’s bound and determined to make some part of this as unforgettable as you will be to him.  

 

He takes his time to explore along your folds, swiping along one side before easing up and around the other. He works his way towards your center at a tantalizingly slow place that has your fingers carding impatiently through his hair.  When his tongue finally teases around your entrance, he can feel your legs begin to shake and he can’t help but smile.  

 

He takes a moment to drink in the tremors beneath his palms, extending them as he begins to drag the tips of his fingers along your inner thigh.  They dip down along where it meets your pelvis, until your hips are lifting off the mattress in anticipation as his touch flutters along your sex.    

 

He can’t remember how he got here.  To this moment, specifically, not between your legs.  The latter is a well-deserved victory considering how tight you like your pants to be.  How you can breathe, let alone hunt in those things is beyond him.

 

“Oh fuck,” you sigh as he slides the tip of his finger up along your slit.  “That’s - that’s  _ good _ .”

 

He hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.  The way your approval vocalizes through that breathless whisper, however, is doing a whole world of good to him.  There’s a heady rush as his own desire inches higher, and he has to shift to alleviate the increasing discomfort as he strains against his suddenly far too confining pants.  

 

He glides his tongue higher, his fingers taking its place before he eases one inside you.  _ Fuck.  _ You’re so wet already and there’s little resistance as he sinks past his second knuckle.  The heat is incredible as is the softness that immediately envelops him and the entire world shifts, fading into the background as you and the sensations you create take its place.  

 

Imagining you wrapped snugly around his cock knowing how good  _ this  _ feels nearly has him coming right there.  

 

He groans, the vibrations from his lips eliciting a gasp from you before you push right up against him and he  _ loves _ it.  He loves that decadent, delicious smell and the heat that blossoms across his face, and like a bee drunk on your nectar he laps at every inch of you eagerly.  

 

The sighs that serenade him let him know just how much you’re enjoying his attentions.  

 

His tongue finally makes it to that sensitive nexus of nerve endings and your body bucks in response.  He has to use his other hand to pin you against the mattress so he can even continue.  He begins a familiar series of strokes that has your stomach tightening as you attempt to still yourself. 

 

Well, it’s familiar to him, though he doubts you’ve ever set eyes on this particular string of Enochian.  

 

Gabriel considers himself an artist when it comes to these types of things, and similarly likes to sign his work.  Often it's with a well placed nip or suck.  For you, it will be knowing he’s made you come undone with nothing other than his name.  

 

Or whichever part of it is going to get the job done.  

 

“Jesus, you’re so good at this,” you pant, just as he’s finishing his third round of spelling it.  He wants to hear how good he is  _ again, _ so he repeats those final symbols that pulled the compliments from your lips only to find your legs grow a little more lax.  Some of the tension leaves your frame as you no longer having to fight to control your movements.  

 

He jumps back to the next closest part, but as before, everything eases, softer gasps punctuating longer stretches of silence in a way that does  _ not  _ suggest he’s rocking your world the way he wants to be at the moment.  

 

The fingertips ruffling through his hair are reassuring as he starts over again.  It takes him a few more tries, but it’s not until your fingers are tightening rapidly that he realizes it's not one specific part that keeps your song rising in a steady crescendo, but the entire sequence.  He knows it's likely the variation in the symbols, a coincidental combination that matches what you need, but a part of him, one he’s not sure is more human or angel, wants to believe it's because it’s  _ his  _ name and not someone else’s.

 

One that does all sorts of things to him when it falls from your lips.

 

“ _Gabriel_ …” The way you call for him is the most carnal thing he’s ever heard; at least he thinks it is until the rest comes spilling out of your mouth.  “Fuck that feels amazing.  You’re so fucking good with your tongue.  Why did I wait so long to let you do this…”

 

_ That  _ is a good question.  

 

He’s wanted to, long before his wings got clipped, but you’ve dodged every attempt, volleyed every flirtatious remark, and, on one occasion, flat out told him he had a better chance of finding his father than snapping you out of your pants.  

 

Technically, you’re not wrong.  There is a good chance he isn’t snapping in  _ or  _ out of anything anytime soon and his father might have to be the one to fix this.  

 

The moment he woke up with what he thought was the worst hangover of his life and it turned out to be humanity, everything changed.  His head felt on the verge of exploding, and the ache that wound through his entire vessel felt so deep and profound he almost thought he’d been blasted by a banishing symbol.  As the day dragged on he became exhausted, famished, on the verge of disoriented, before he found anyone that could help.  

 

His help, however, had simply been  _ pissed _ .  

 

When everyone assumed he had lied and that he had faked his own death to avoid taking sides, you were the only one who believed he hadn’t.  When the Winchester’s slammed the door in his face because they didn’t trust him, you took him in.  More importantly, when he became human so did you. 

 

You started actually talking to him.  You started listening to him, though what he appreciates the most is how you’ve never pitied him.  It’s almost like you think more of him now that he’s lost his abilities.  Before, all you seemed interested in was taking him down a peg, but now you build him up in ways for which he’ll never be able to repay you.  

 

You make him feel worthy.  You make him feel like he’s not just something, but some _ one _ , and that he has a place with you he’s never had with anyone else. You show him again and again all those traits he had been defending when he stood up to Lucifer and died. 

 

Which was why he really needed  _ not _ to screw this up right now. 

 

You aren’t the only thing that’s different.  He’s also found there aren't many things he’s good at without the grace of Heaven backing him up.  Not surprisingly, he’s pretty efficient with his mouth still.  Mostly in running it, but right now he’s glad there’s another expertise it carries. 

 

Completely inflated ego aside (or deflated, as the case tends to be these days), he imagines the rest of what he does with you tonight will be pretty fantastic as well. 

 

He’s had so much sex over the eons he’s lost track of just how many times it's happened.  Rather, his brain now lacks the statistical wherewithal to accurately form a close guess.  It’s kind of nice, not having the extra data floating around in his mind, a distant, but ever chaotic buzz of cosmic knowledge that looms so it can be accessed at the snap of his fingers.  

 

What humans lacked in cerebral capacity, however, they certainly make up for in depth of emotion.  He’s never felt so taken by you or by the rising tide of excitement and jumbled nerves that thrum with dizzying anticipation.  This may actually be the first time he’s felt lightheaded from something other than adrenaline. 

 

“So  _ so  _ good…”  He can’t tell if it’s your words or the huskiness that’s settled into your voice that has his pulse continuing to pick up speed.  “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

 

The hand he’s holding you down with splays out, fingers reflexively digging into your flesh.  The noise reverberating through his chest is appreciative, completely unbidden, and gives away just as much to him as it does to you.  

 

“Somebody likes hearing that they’re good...” In the periphery of his vision he sees you lift your head.  His gaze rises and the moment his eyes lock with yours, there’s a thrill that explodes across his stomach that has his cock twitching.  The way it rubs against cotton has his eyelids fluttering and there’s a secondary shock wave of pleasure that follows.  

 

“Do you also like hearing you’re a good boy?”  

 

Just as those waves die down sparks shoot across his nerve endings and this time his entire lower half gives a jerk.  

 

Oh.   _Oh_.  Oh _fucking_ _father_ does that hit a button.  One he didn't even know existed.  Or maybe it's one created in the absence of his powers, as he struggles to maintain a semblance of mighty when, really, he is mightily _impotent._

 

“Well if you want praise, feathers, you’re going to have to earn it,” you smirk, amusement sparkling in your gaze, no doubt from the way his hips hit the mattress so suddenly the entire bed gave a lurch.  

 

That’s when he realizes he’s been frozen in place since you said that bewitching phrase.  

 

“How’s this for a start?”  he murmurs, withdrawing his finger until only the tip sits just inside your entrance.  Slowly, he pulls that out as well, sinking beneath the sensation of slick velvet sliding against the pad of his finger as he slips it back in.  He continues to tease it back and forth, in then out, though you’re not the only one suffering beneath the torment because once again his mind is envisioning when other things will be inside you, and it’s  _ not _ the second finger he adds to give at least one of you relief.  

 

Your head drops back, a drawn out groan accompanying the deliberate way he pushes them into you.  He almost echos the sound.  For a moment, the only thing he can focus on is how your muscles grip this girth and how two fingers would not do the rest of him justice.  

 

He can't wait to see the look on your face when you figure that out.

 

He flicks his tongue against your clit again, reveling in the way a shudder ripples through you.  You clamp down around the digits, and there’s a simultaneous breath that hisses through your teeth and his nose at the resulting sensation.   Fuck.   _ Fuck _ .  You’re  _ so  _ fucking tight and it’s not so much a matter of whether he’ll fit (though he does wonder how comfortably that might be), so much as whether he’ll be able to last.  

 

Shit.  Now he’s throbbing.  He needs to focus.  Breathe.  Get it together.   _ Something _ .  

 

He’s never had issues in the control department, but in his divine form, there was always so much more with which to distract himself.  The never ending chatter of the city, the scurrying of wildlife in remoter locations, people arguing over ridiculous things like who drank the last soda or who has it worse in a relatively stable and horror free life.   

 

In particularly dire circumstances, he resorts to eavesdropping on the mind-numbingly monotonous (and  _ terribly  _ normal) conversations of an old married couple in Bolivia.      

 

The problem isn’t just that he can’t tap into the rest of world like he used to, it’s that there’s nothing else in his world at the moment but you.  All he wants is to make you feel good.  If he can manage to concentrate on that, then maybe he’ll be able to make it through this.  

 

He slowly increases the tempo in which he’s pumping his fingers into you, enjoying the way your measured gasps turn into erratic groans.  Every so often he pauses, curling fingertips upward and giving your g-spot some much needed attention as well.  

 

“You feel so fucking good, my angel.”

 

He growls.  He  _ actually _ growls, your words somehow reaching beneath what he thinks is the bottom of the emotional well you’ve uncovered, reminding him that there is still a piece, even in his current form, that remains undeniably primal. 

 

Shit.  Shit shit  _ shit _ .  That’s a button he  _ knows _ exists, but it’s never been hit like this.  You have him soaring faster and higher than he’s ever before.  You haven’t even touched him below the belt and he’s so close to that finish line he has to press himself against the mattress to keep from tripping straight over it. 

 

He does his best to channel that energy into taking you over the edge, his tongue setting a frantic pace where he has to move his entire head to keep up with it.  It draws forth a myriad of mewling moans, broken by curses and occasionally his name.

 

“Glad you liked that,” you eventually find coherency, your voice a throaty purr that has his hips unconsciously rocking against the mattress.  “Because if you’re going to ruin me for anyone else, then you _better_ be mine.”  

 

His hand slides down to your thigh where he has something he can clench onto.  Whether he’s trying to leave his mark or is simply clinging desperately to keep from falling over the edge, he’s not certain anymore.  There’s an echo of similar sentiments as your hand slips through his hair and tightens, though the tremble in your legs suggest you’re about to stumble over that precipice anyway.  

 

“You’re amazing,” you breathe.  “ _ So _ amazing, my angel.  Whatever you’re doing with your tongue is  _ too  _ fucking good.  No one’s ever -- you’re just --  _ fuck Gabe _ ...” 

 

Electricity shoots straight off your tongue at the nickname that repeats as you topple over the brink, the energy arcing across the air until it reaches his ears.  It slides inside with a thunderous jolt as he realizes it isn’t just technique.  Part of it  _ is  _ him laying claim to you with the only thing it feels like he has left sometimes.

 

It’s too much.  The dizzying rush of knowing you’re just as captivated by him combined with your praise sends an explosion through his entire system.  It overwhelms his senses to the point the world slips away and before he can catch himself, he’s falling right behind you.  His body involuntarily jerks before warmth is seeping through his pants as he spills himself within them.  

 

Well…  _ fuck _ .

 

Your head lifts up briefly, your gaze still cloudy with your lingering satisfaction as your brows draw together.   

 

“Did you just…”  

 

Well, this is new... and beyond mortifying.  He can only play the human card so much and even then, he’s not some impulse-driven teenager practically drowning in a sea of hormones.  He scoots himself down enough to be able to drop his head onto the mattress.  

 

Maybe if he’s lucky, Lucifer will drop by to stab him again and put him out of his misery.  

 

You sit up, at least he assumes you do by the way the  mattress dips in front of him.  Your fingers find their way back to his hair, though the way you touch has shifted.  It’s one that never fails to make his heart skip in a way that shakes loose the weight that often clasps around it.  Fingertips brush tenderly across his temple, tucking errant strands behind his ear before gently combing through the strands.  Each stroke against his scalp undoes some of the embarrassment, though he doubts there’s any relieving the emotion entirely (not to mention the color from his cheeks).  

 

How you humans live with these  _ feelings  _ is beyond him.  

 

“You know what the upside to this is?” You ask, and despite the gentleness beneath your hand there’s nothing else to suggest you’re handling him any differently.  Cautiously, he raises his head up, just enough for his eyes to meet yours.  The good thing is you don’t appear to be laughing at him, which is a miracle in and of itself.  

 

_ There’s an upside? _ His brows finally respond.  He can’t bring himself to speak yet or even imagine there really is one. 

 

“This just means you’ll last longer when you fuck me,” there’s no hesitation behind your words and the look you give him suggests you’re not letting him get off this easily. 

 

At least not any easier than he already has.  

 

His breath hitches and he’s not sure if it’s the shock that you still  _ want  _ to or if it’s because his cock just gave the biggest twitch in support of that idea.  

 

“Right after we get you cleaned up,” you remind him, a wicked smile stretching across your face.  “I’ll leave it up to you whether you want to use the shower… or my tongue.”

 

Sweet father, he is a lucky, lucky man.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
